


The Dancing Men

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Drabble Challenge [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (not a main character), Case Fic, Gay Club, M/M, Serial Killer, eventual love declaration, mentions of past trauma in the army, tw blood, tw death, tw injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:39:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a voice lowered by sadness, John continues.</p>
<p>“You could have died, Sherlock. And I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do anything about it. Don’t you see how that could be a little not good?”</p>
<p>Sherlock slowly turns back to look at John, noticing the convulsive bobbing of his adam’s apple and the bright, watery glint in his eyes.</p>
<p>“John,” he tries.</p>
<p>“No, Sherlock. Don’t even try to tell me otherwise. I saw the scene. The rusted fire escape, the overturned skip, the crushed killer, and so much blood. Sherlock, so much blood.”</p>
<p>John blinks to clear his eyes and tightens his hands into fists at his side.</p>
<p>“You fell.”</p>
<p>It’s not a question but Sherlock nods anyway.</p>
<p>John lets out a shaky exhale that sounds much closer to a sob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancing Men

**Author's Note:**

> For the Tumblr Drabble Challenge in response to requests from @hotsmugstache @jem-the-ginger, and @letthechoirssing.
> 
> 141: “Okay, the blood isn’t mine, calm down.”  
> 23: “W-What are you doing?”  
> 21: “I might have had a few shots.”  
> 152: “[text] So I might be in hospital right now.”  
> 148: “Like I’d choose physics over you.”

“You can’t be serious,” John whined.

Sherlock, paying absolutely no attention to the mid-life crisis unfolding in their sitting room, continues explaining the plan.

“You’ll be bait. A daddy, I think it’s called. Irrelevant. Anyway, you will buy a drink, circulate, flirt, whatever it is that normal people do. I’ll be watching and it will be obvious when you’ve attracted our killer. Voila! Case solved.”

Sherlock finishes with a flourish of his arms and collapses onto the sofa, looking expectantly at John. The poor doctor is frozen in place, staring at Sherlock, and trying to organize his thoughts into a coherent counterargument. He’s failing. His mind is an endless repetition of the same flat-noted panic. _Him? In a gay club? He is supposed to be attractive to younger men? How the hell is he supposed to do that? Why can’t Sherlock do it? Does he do that? Probably not. At least he knows his own limitations. He could never pull it off. That doesn’t mean that I can! Christ, what a mess._

Sherlock scowls at John’s internal monologue.

“Get dressed, John! Leaving in fifteen.”

With a note of finality, the detective sweeps from the room, leaving John to finish his panic attack alone.

Seventeen minutes later, John is standing in his pants, staring down at the less-than-desirable clothing options he has strewn across the bed. None of them seem right for the evening. Sherlock, losing the last of his patience, storms into the room without knocking. John quickly covers himself with his hands while Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, you know?”

Sherlock picks up each article of clothing in turn. He throws the castaways into the far corner of the room where John knows he will have to pick them up later. Sherlock makes a moue of distaste and rounds on John.

“Where is your uniform? It’s not here. How can I judge without all the options?”

John is digging the well cared-for outfit from his cupboard before he can even think. He hands it gingerly to the detective with a warning.

“It’s not a toy, Sherlock. That means something to me.”

The detective has the uniform unfolded and is looking at it in the light. His face goes shockingly pale as he takes in the slight rusty-red stains that still cover it.

“Somethings never come clean.”

John whispers, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eye. He flies into action as Sherlock staggers backwards, almost collapsing onto the floor. His arms shoot out to steady the man, and John carefully searches his face. The fear and disbelief in Sherlock’s gaze clicks into place, and John hurries to reassure him.

“Okay, just take it easy now. Okay, the blood isn’t mine, calm down. Sherlock? I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock stands frozen and unhearing, and John fears he may still pass out from lack of oxygen. He does the only thing he can think of. He grabs Sherlock’s hand and lays it flat against his chest. He lets the steady, strong beat of his heart thrum into that hand while his arms support most of the detective’s weight.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. Can you take a breath for me? Like this. Deep inhale….hold it….exhale. Good! That’s so good. Another one.”

Slowly, Sherlock starts to breathe again. His hands come up to cage John’s ribs as he measures his respiration rate to John’s. After several more minutes, he blinks and refocuses. His face blushes with embarrassment. Sherlock grabs an old pair of jeans and a light salmon button up, flinging them at John as he all but runs from the room. The door slams behind him and John can hear him thundering down the stairs.

“Three minutes, John!”

* * *

 

Sherlock has very little time to berate himself for his stupidity before they are stepping out of a cab in front of Verve, the hottest gay club in the city.

“Remember, keep it simple and keep it moving. No need for an elaborate ruse, not that you could pull that off…”

John cuts him off with a shark yank of his sleeve.

“Oi! I get it, alright?”

Sherlock nods sharply and leads them inside.

* * *

 

John is surprised to find the club light brightly with laser lights and strobes. His head already throbs and they’ve been here little more than an hour. He turns and motions to the bartender for another scotch. He sips slowly from the glass and leans nonchalantly against the bar, highlighting the strength of his shoulders. He meets the eye of a tall, wraith-like man gyrating against a bear of a man several yards away. The man winks flirtatiously and John smiles warmly.

Knowing that he’ll have to wait, at least for this song to end, he scans the club hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive detective. His heart stutters to a stop in his chest as he spies that curl head bobbing and weaving from the center of a large group on the dance floor. John watches in shock as Sherlock stalks sexily across the room, thrusting and circling his hips. He stops in front of a frankly gorgeous man who grabs his waist. Sherlock twists in his arms to sway his arse against the man’s crotch. He flings one arm overhead to wrap around the man’s neck as he shimmies up and down the man’s front. His head is thrown back and his eyes are closed. Sherlock makes a blissful tableau of sex personified.

John is barely aware of the far-away tinkling of broken glass. He is rocked back to the present when a lean body presses against him as a man reaches for the beers being offered by the bartender. John relaxes when he realizes it’s the man from the dance floor.

“Bad luck,” the man says looking between John and Sherlock. “Would have really liked you, mate. You’re fucking hot.” The man gives a suggestive thrust against John’s hip before he walks away.

Not caring about the case at the moment, John circles the dance floor until he can make eye-contact with the detective who nods towards a darkened corner and holds up five fingers. John nods his understanding and makes his way over.

Sherlock arrives precisely five minutes later, his white button-up plastered to his ridiculously beautiful body and his cock carving a sharp outline in his tight-fitting leather trousers. Several droplets of water fall through the air as he runs his hands through his sodden curls. He bites his lower lip and looks expectantly at John, who is now lost for words.

“W-What are you doing?”

Sherlock laughs, a deep jovial thing, and shakes his head.

“Reconnaissance,” he says with a grin. A man behind them knocks into Sherlock, who stumbles forward unsteadily. He catches himself against John’s chest with his arms wrapping around john’s shoulders. John locks his hands around his friend’s waist to make sure he doesn’t collapse to the horrifyingly sticky ground. Sherlock leans forward. His curls brush John’s cheek.

“I might have had a few shots.”

His whisper is sultry and low. The feeling of those words against his ear clenches John’s stomach and diverts his blood flow in a decidedly-southern route. Sherlock is all-but sagging against him now, and the rub of his surprisingly-soft skin is not helping John maintain his distance.

Suddenly, Sherlock straightens and goes still, like a hunting dog that has scented its rabbit. A victorious smirk adorns his face as he flies into action. Without as much as a word to John, the detective is off and running. John only has time to catch a glimpse of the man from the bar before the exit door is slamming behind him with Sherlock in hot pursuit.

John shakes himself and takes off after the pair, but by the time he gets the door open again, they are nowhere to be seen. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his mobile. He pushes the call button without any real hope of an answer. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t bother while tussling with a criminal. He swears as the pre-recorded message urges him not to leave a message if he is as stupid and frivolous as the vast majority of humanity. Resignedly, John dials the only other number that could be of help at this moment.

Mycroft answers on the third ring. Damn him. He let it ring two extra times just to prove a point.

“John. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

John is past caring about niceties at this point. He ignores the question and launches straight into his request.

“Sherlock and I, we’re on a case and he took off without me. In pursuit of a serial killer, a particularly deadly one, according to him. I need you to find him, Mycroft. Now.”

He rings off before Mycroft can reply. He knows the man will find his brother and he doesn’t have time to play Mycroft’s games. John notices several overturned bins in the alley to the left of the club. Taking that as a clue, he sprints off in that direction, hoping it will lead him closer to his insane flatmate.

* * *

 

John’s phone rings forty-five minutes later, just as he is becoming hysterical.

“You better have some bloody news, Mycroft.”

He growls down the line.

“John?”

He clutches the phone tighter as a brief wave of relief sweeps through him. He would recognize that silky baritone anywhere. Although the raspy, shallow nature of it right now is a bit concerning.

“Sherlock, thank god! Where the hell are you, you colossal berk?!”

John can hear police sirens in the background and a short muffled exchange as Sherlock covers the phone to talk with someone on the scene. Not wanting to wait for Sherlock to come back on, John follows the distance sound of sirens until he can see the flashing lights. He runs toward the rope and is immediately let through. He is delighted to see Lestrade on the scene and makes a beeline for him. He stops in his tracks as his brain catches up to what his eyes are seeing. The man from the bar is dead. His glassy, unseeing eyes are staring up at the night sky while his body lies half-crushed by a nearby rubbish skip. Massive internal hemorrhaging that eventually lead to death, not a great way to die. But then, why is there so much blood on the pavement? The serial killer had hardly bled at all. John can see a minor laceration to the back of his head from where it struck the pavement as he fell. John’s hand trembles as he turns toward Lestrade.

The detective inspector is deep in conversation with several uniformed officers, so John pulls out his phone and taps out a text.

[TEXT] Where are you??

An unexpected response arrives moments later.

[TEXT] So…I might be in hospital right now.

John tries to regulate his breathing. If Sherlock is texting, it can’t be that bad, can it? Already running for the main road, John texts back.

[TEXT] Which one?

* * *

 

John shouts his thanks and thrusts some bills at the cabbie as he pulls to a stop in front of University College Hospital. John jogs through the automatic doors, straight to reception.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

It is meant to be an inquiry, but it comes out more imperious. Captain Watson bleeding through the doctor’s calm resolve. The receptionist looks disapproving at his tone but searches her paperwork.

“Room 642.”

John nods his thanks and rushes toward the elevator bank just off the lobby. He taps his foot impatiently as the elevator stops on every floor separating him from Sherlock. As the machine chimes indicate the sixth floor, John launches himself through the barely-open doors and flies down the hallway. He hesitates in front of the door, not quite sure he is prepared to see what waits inside. Upon hearing a deep roar of pain, John steels his shoulders and marches into the room.

His flatmate is ridiculous. That’s the first thing John notices as he enters the room. Sherlock is nestled in a hospital bed with an IV line and several machines surrounding him, but his greatest displeasure is aimed at the poor nurse trying to approach him with shears.

“Not going to happen. Don’t even think about it,” Sherlock bellows.

John can’t help the relieved laugh that escapes him. He walks toward the bed and relieves the nurse of his burden.

“It’s alright. Can you give us a minute?”

The nurse looks gratefully at him before fleeing the room. John lays the shears on the nearby table and collapses in the chair at Sherlock’s bedside.

“What were you thinking?

John demands to know. Sherlock bristles, ready for a fight.

“I thought it was prudent to get a serial killer off the streets, John, but please do tell me how that was the wrong decision this time.”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and looks so much like a petulant child that John has to smile. Sherlock looks confused and John takes advantage of the silence to press on.

“It’s nothing to do with catching the killer, Sherlock. You know that. I’m very glad you got him in the end.”

Sherlock preens at the praise.

“What is not okay is the fact that you pursued a _SERIAL KILLER_ ,” John can’t help raising his voice now, “without any back up. You even left me behind, you idiot. What were you thinking? Please tell me. Huh?”

Sherlock turns his head away and doesn’t respond.

In a voice lowered by sadness, John continues.

“You could have died, Sherlock. And I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do anything about it. Don’t you see how that could be a little not good?”

Sherlock slowly turns back to look at John, noticing the convulsive bobbing of his adam’s apple and the bright, watery glint in his eyes.

“John,” he tries.

“No, Sherlock. Don’t even try to tell me otherwise. I saw the scene. The rusted fire escape, the overturned skip, the crushed killer, and so much blood. Sherlock, so much blood.”

John blinks to clear his eyes and tightens his hands into fists at his side.

“You fell.”

It’s not a question but Sherlock nods anyway.

John lets out a shaky exhale that sounds much closer to a sob.

“You always fucking fall. Can we just give it a rest for a while, huh? Try a new death-defying act. Just put a pause on the falling for a bit, yeah?”

He looks at Sherlock with such earnest fear that the detective feels his heart clench in his chest. The idea of scaring John. John! The man who was a soldier. The man who ran into firefights with a med kit, who chases criminals down dark London alleyways, who lives and works with a self-proclaimed sociopath. The idea of frightening that man is unthinkable. It’s a feeling Sherlock never wants to feel again.

He reaches one hand toward John and winces as the movement jostles his bruised ribs. John takes the proffered hand and grips firmly. Sherlock can feel all the unspoken words bubbling up inside of him. He can feel them bursting forth and he can’t stop them from tumbling past his lips.

“I’ve been falling for quite a long time now.”

His voice is low and sincere. John’s eyes flash to his face and John gasps as he takes in Sherlock’s expression – tenderness, uncertainty, and love.

“But you can’t just fall indefinitely! It’s simple physics. Eventually there has to be a landing.”

John is nearly hysterical in disbelief. He can’t believe that Sherlock loves him, plain ordinary John Watson. Sure, he might be interesting to Sherlock but that won’t last, and then he will be all alone again. Worse-off than he was when he returned from Afghanistan. At least then he had no reason to live. He’s not sure he could survive losing the only one he’s found.

“Like I’d choose the law of physics over you.”

Sherlock murmurs softly.

“Besides, John, I always survive a fall.”

John rolls his eyes.

“Yeah? Suppose you think you’re indestructible now. You survive a couple falls and one fake suicide and suddenly you’re immortal.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand gently.

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course I’m not immortal. I’m susceptible to death just like any other human.”

Sherlock makes such a disgusted face that John has to chuckle.

“But I don’t have to worry about that.”

Sherlock seems certain, but John doesn’t quite understand what he is getting at.

“No?” he asks hesitantly.

Sherlock smiles indulgently up at him.

“No. Because I have you, and I don’t think for one minute that you would ever allow terminal impact.”

John leans down to press his lips softly to Sherlock temple.

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always please let me know what you thought! I'd love to chat.  
> Feel free to send me prompts if you have something you've been dying to have written, either on here or over on Tumblr (I am @daringlydomestic).


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